In tidy order they await the spring
To make them bloom again. Amongst the trees
That rise in stately tiers above the roofs,
Along the hill-side steep o’er steep, the smoke
In light blue wreaths, from every chimney curls
With ample convolution, giving note
Of snug warm hearths, and comfortable homes
Where winter is not feared. The lattice-panes
Shine clear and bright, and to each flitting ray
Give keen reflections, whilst their cheerful glance